


Burnt Offerings

by octobertown



Series: Ashes [1]
Category: Marvel, X-Men, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Psyche Smut, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Some Plot, but not a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 00:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobertown/pseuds/octobertown
Summary: In which Pyro exercises all his subterfuge to give Rogue a not-birthday present that begins with bourbon and boysenberry pie, and ends in the answer to the question: what does she really want?(Set in a retconned timeline post-DoFP and near the beginning of what-would-have-been X2, where some things look eerily similar, and other things diverge.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the year of shipping old ships, it seems: RYRO's always been an old favourite of mine, and in the process of trying to find new fic for the couple, I ended up writing my own. This is a three-parter, light on plot, and it's a slow burn but (I hope) it'll be worth it. Please enjoy. :)

To begin with, it was never about making things burn. The actual explanation for why man made fire was one thing, but Rogue knew for a fact that John had only ever cracked open his anthropology text in front of her and Bobby once — and that the survival aspect of the thing was a philosophy that bored him. It didn't matter that he couldn't spit flames or sear a steak without his Zippo lighter in hand.

He wouldn't have tried to cook anyway.

It didn't matter — because all John ever wanted to do was manipulate something that was already there.

Maybe that was why, at half one in the morning on a Tuesday, Rogue found herself across the second-floor hallway to the boys' room. An early winter crept in during the night, and even though it was November, someone had still cracked a window, letting in the snow.

Flakes of white gusted down the hallway, leaving her shivering in her nightgown and sweater, gloved hands jammed into her armpits. Waiting for some sign that she wasn't the idiot she thought she was when after five minutes, John still hadn't appeared.

Did he expect her to knock on their door?

And how exactly was she supposed to explain that to Bobby, if he woke up to find her shivering at the foot of his bed — but not actually there to get him out of bed?

Or get into it.

Her breath ghosted in a small, frustrated cloud before her — the silk of her nightgown disturbed through no movement of her own.

"You're not dressed for this little expedition." The rush of breath at her ear rose the hair on the backs of her arms, and shrugging her ears up as if to deflect the surprise heat of him, she shrank into herself. Bumping the wall, she turned to find John clinging to the shadows of the stairwell. The carpeting deadening his steps. Socked feet. Loose flannel pajamas and a hoodie.

He raised his eyebrows. "See something you like?"

She flushed. "How long have you been standing there?"

Glancing back down the stairwell, and then back to her, he seemed to weigh the question: Rogue could almost see the lie as he formed it:

"Not long."

She pulled her sweater closer across her chest when his eyelashes fluttered, gaze drifting. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Come on." He nodded to the depths of the school below, where a veil of shadow awaited them.

She shivered, but this time, she suspected, it wasn't from the chill.

A glance back at their door and John raised his eyebrows. It felt unnatural — just being the two of them like this. Co-conspirators in the early hours, sneaking through the mansion. As if there were always supposed to be three, but they'd neglected a critical component to normalize the strange, quiet tension between them: as if John was waiting for her to protest that they'd left Bobby out.

"Don't be predictable, Rogue," he warned.

She pressed her lips together.

"When you suggested this, I didn't realize you meant to haul me out of bed at all hours."

"He'll forgive you for leaving him out just this once." He glanced back at her from three steps down, one hand resting on the banister, the other on the lighter in his pocket. "It's not his birthday."

"It's not my birthday either. Fact of the matter is, I don't even know when the actual, correct, real day is —"

"And that's going to stop you from graciously accepting a gift from a friend."

She pressed her lips together, not wanting to give him an excuse to tell her she was whining. John always managed to set her straight when she hesitated; to put her in motion where Bobby might've cautioned her to play it safe.

"It just feels —" A little like betrayal, she wanted to tell him. The look on his face stopped her, however.

Only yesterday he'd informed her that she was turning into one of those girls that didn't do anything without their boyfriend's permission. Rogue was no kept woman, and she'd informed John as much, only to be met with an all-knowing-smirk and the challenge that she wouldn't be caught dead out of bed after-hours, given that the last time she'd tried that, it had gotten three adamantium claws lodged into her clavicle.

"Trouble like me shouldn't make you want to run, Rogue," John had told her, and shrugged. "Besides, running seems like you're making it an invitation to chase."  
She plodded after him, coming up short when that infuriating smirk on his face only deepened.

"You'd hit the floor before you took two steps, mister. Now, are we doing this or what?"

Never mind that she couldn't be sure what "it" was, but the slightest flicker of interest caught like a spark in John's gaze. Something burned there a moment as he considered her, the weight of her words beginning to feel more loaded than she'd intended.

Her skin prickled, and not unpleasantly.

A moment later cold wrapped her as he vacated the spot he'd been standing.

She hadn't even realized how close she'd huddled up to him; his warmth the only thing in a cold hall that kept her from shivering.

"Let's go," he called after her, halfway to the first level and too loud.

Asking where was useless, but she tried anyway.

"A surprise means you throw yourself into the unknown," he called back.

Rogue glanced back at Bobby's door — their door, really, since they shared the room — and tried to squash the flicker of guilt she felt as she followed her boyfriend's best friend into territories unknown.

"It means putting your trust in the things that make you nervous. Or scared."

John didn't scare her.

Not really.

Did he?

She licked her lip, pulling it into her mouth to chew as he came back into view at the foot of the banister, his hand outstretched with a black slip of something draped across the palm.

Rogue sucked in a breath when she realized what it was he was offering.

"Trust me?" he asked, like she knew that he would.

No, John didn't scare her. Not exactly. Not in the way his gaze lingered too often, or how she caught him staring a little too long sometimes, or how his amusement sometimes seemed to brook suggestion though he made none at all:

Dare me. Try me.

His fingers brushed her elbow — little more than a glance — but the sensation sped through her bones.

He held out the blindfold.

John didn't scare her, exactly: He made her nervous.

Rogue slipped her fingers over the worn jersey — satin smooth with wear, like an old teeshirt that he'd sliced up specifically for this purpose.  
She swallowed her concern.

"No," she said, not laughing at all.

"Good," he said, and stepped behind her.

She bowed her head, her heart chugging into a trotting rhythm that she could hear in her ears. Nerves, probably. The scent of him trailed around her like a hug, enveloping her in cedar smoke and a little hint of butane.

"Be careful," she said by way of accepting the offer to put it on her himself.

He wasn't careful, but neither was he rough. The pads of his fingers easing her hair back from her ears left her rooted, stilled to the point where, if she were a deer, he'd caught her in his headlights.

The touch was brazen. Too familiar, almost.

He knotted the cloth at the back of her head, and then, the real shock: his hands settled on her shoulders — the weight and warmth of them such a surprise that her knees almost buckled from the tension that spindled through her stomach.

Into her ear, his breath curled into steam. "The thing is, there's no reason to be. You're not made of glass."

A sigh caught against the back of her teeth, hitching the sound as she answered, "It's not me that I'm worried about. Dummy." A breathy laugh.

With her sight stolen, the knowledge of his presence at her back was all-consuming: a wall of flame might've been more discreet, instead, all John's hard angles hovered against her: a solid wall of warmth and security that buffered the velvet dark.

"You worry too much."

His hands feather-trailed down her arms, roving over her knuckles and around her fingers. Held her loose in case she'd pull free. When she didn't, he slipped his digits between hers. Squeezed.

"All the important parts are covered," he said. "And the parts Bobby wouldn't want me touching, well —"

A puff of breath over her shoulder, spilling down her front where her negligee stood open to the night.

"At least I can see for myself where those parts are."

She yanked her hand free and elbowed him squarely in the ribs.

He wouldn't let go over her other hand. Laughing, he drew her to his side.

"What about what I want?" she shot at him. "I'm not Bobby's property. It's my body."

"Your body, but it's not under your control."

She stiffened. "It's not like I have a choice about how I handle myself around people."

He sighed. Even blindfolded, she could feel his assessment like the heat from a stove element, warming the side of her face.

"Of course you do."

His thumb ran over her knuckles, once — a gesture so tender that she frowned. She hadn't thought him capable of softness. Puzzling over it, the lack of fight spurred him onward:

"See?" He gave her a tug. "You can choose to let me guide you, or you can fight back the way you normally do. Warn me off." A challenge. "Go on. Tell me you're dangerous. That this is dangerous."

She pressed her lips together. It was dangerous. Saying so seemed like conceding defeat.

"I'm dangerous, Rogue."

"It's different."

He huffed a breath. "You would say that —"

"What would you say?"

"That it's a matter of perspective."

He didn't get it. She paused, rolling the same old argument around. He thought she was talking about her powers. Not that they were sneaking around in the dead of night, unsupervised. Unchecked by — what? The voice of sanity in their trio?

Even Logan would say it was suspect.

Rogue's stomach gave a flutter: a mingling of excitement and knowing, somehow, that while what they were doing was perfectly innocent, there was a kernel of something at the heart of whatever John had planned that turned his lingering attention nefarious.

" —But only because it's your special day, and I decided for once that arguing would be less fun than what I've got planned. So let's go."

The thought that he was going to get her into a world of trouble nagged, tugging at her with the insistence of dog reaching the end of its leash; too wild to do anything other than stagger after it lest she trip up. John was careful with her — leading her forward with the lightest guidance to turn or descend or lift her feet for the stair with calm so absolute that it left her unsettled.

In all his previous attempts at chivalry, she'd known nothing but the roar of flame and the rage that fuelled it, and in his off-hours, his silence was laden with a smoldering disdain for anyone that dared challenge him. John knew better than everyone. John didn't need anyone.

And yet the press of his fingers against he satin gloves were as tender as a butterfly wing.

So caught up in the unexpected, she quickly lost track of the course they'd taken through the school. Only when they stopped and he pulled in an uneven breath did she realize they'd arrived — and that the weighted silence between them might've been nerves.

"Right," he huffed, forcing the word.

The open and shut click of his lighter followed. Just once. Not the metronomic pacing he kept to steady himself.

Only the brush of his flannel Panama pants against the backs of her legs indicated he was standing too close.

Patterns of light filtered through the cloth of her blindfold. Only impressions, but she knew he'd lit something ablaze.

"HappybirthdayRogue," he said in a rush, pulling the blindfold with a little more force than strictly necessary to reveal the long table in the kitchen, dangling pots and pans catching the light as she blinked back into clarity.

The counter was a mess, for one. Smears of flour and butter streaked the surface in finger-smears. A few discarded cans of fruit sat still-full near a stack of mixing bowls. The oven sat cooling.

At the center of the table, however, was the biggest surprise:

"It's a pie?"

She didn't mean for it to sound like a question.

"It's also bourbon," he offered, a little shakily as he extracted the bottle, moving from behind her to leave a gust of cold in his wake. John hovered, looking uncertain as he weighed her expression.

She didn't understand.

"You like it better than cake," he explained. As if trying to justify the act he'd committed in destroying the kitchen for her benefit.

She hazarded a step closer, frowning.

It wasn't anything special to look at. The sugared topping was clumpy, the crust a little pale. He'd burned the egg wash a little but —

"Oh!" She breathed, the waft of fruit and lemon juice wafting — tart and sweet and strong, and dark as the Mississippi night itself.

It smelled of summer. She heard bullfrogs. She heard crickets. She felt the dough sugar sticking to her fingers. Felt the linoleum of her aunt's kitchen floor under her bare feet.  
Her throat closed, emotion and memory mingling at the scent —

Her eyes burned.

Rogue sank to the bench, clutching her throat, gloved fingers working the sound back into her lungs as she struggled for some word of thanks and embarrassment; at how it must have been such a pain to find the fruit. Like trying to find boysenberries this far north didn't take some sort of bribery she herself was unfamiliar with.

John made a strangled sound as he swallowed. Unscrewed the cap. Took a swig and grimaced.

"Johnny," she said, taking in the kitchen though it dimmed: the pie haloed by the effort. "How did you know it was my favorite?"

She turned to him, finding him pale and brooding, a hand around the neck of the bottle.

"It's not a big deal?" The words hung, tapping out as a hollow question: like he was uncertain of her response.

She licked her lips.

He'd baked her a boysenberry pie. For her not-birthday.

She turned her expression to him, and found not the hardened, sarcastic teenager looking back at her, but an uncertain boy with his arms crossed over his chest defensively. As if whatever verdict she pronounced would damn him right then and there.

"I —" she began, then shut her mouth. "Where are the plates?" she asked instead.

He hesitated a moment further as if wrestling with the impossible possibility that wasn't throwing the dessert at him — that neither of them quite knew what to say to one another: the elephant in the room the disproportionate size of the gesture relative to the person offering it.

Something new fluttered in her belly: a nervous tingling that sizzled across the back of her neck and down her arms, trailing his gaze. It set her limbs alight with the realization that whatever hid behind his bitter resentment shared something more furtive and contemplative than he was letting on. Her breath shuddered out on the exhale, and she forced herself from the thought of Bobby's judgment; his lack of involvement in this. It was just John — the effort and the machination — a covert operation undertaken in secret and only for her. That made her nervous.

Thankfully, she managed, "I also like bourbon."

And John set down the bottle within her reach, as if that sealed the simmering compact between them: that eating this pie together that John Allerdyce baked would be a secret between them that went down in infamy.

She shuddered on the exhale, something new rooting through her awareness as John withdrew cutlery, and Marie pulled off her white gloves, sparing the back of his head only a glance.

She waited, the weight of these gestures as heady as the silence that followed when he turned to see what she'd done as if offering her own sort of thanks-shaped-trust.  
He stared at her bare fingers as he offered her the handle of a knife to make the first slice.

Marie tipped the bottle back to her mouth, wincing, but managing not to cough as her eyes watered. She managed, "Boysenberry stains like a bitch."  
John smirked and passed her a plate.

—

"Look, all I'm saying," he continued, brandishing the bottle as if it punctuated his argument. "Is that it might've been a totally different situation had she not woken up at exactly that moment."

He raised his eyebrows. Challenging her to refute him.

"Jubilee," she said, "would sleep through a Sentinel attack." If her words slurred a bit, he didn't seem to mind.

John grinned. "Through armageddon, right? Apocalypse and his four horsemen could ride down the hallway at full tilt, and Jubes would just keep snoring."

"You're saying she knew what Betsy had planned."

He passed her the bottle.

"And she stayed up to catch her in the act."

"Irrefutable proof."

She scoffed. "Sounds like a scandal."

"Should be — keep it in mind for the next rotation where you land Jubes as a roommate."

She sniffed, eyeing the level of amber liquid. How had they drunk so much so quickly? It burned less after the fifth or sixth sip. Even started to taste a little like cherry cola.  
  
"You might not know this, Johnny, but I'm the least likely person to get caught sneaking a boy into my bed in the middle of the night."

He stilled, hands frozen mid-motion. The lighter appeared, and he looked at it as if the blasted thing were a magic eight ball and he might ask for its advice. He put it back in his pocket a moment later.

"Is that because you'd knock Jubes out before she could snitch?" he hazarded.

A flicker of something like mischief in his gaze — it wasn't what she'd meant at all, and under normal circumstances, a lady might be offended by the suggestion. She was different, though: her powers made the suggestion of impropriety impossible, and yet, there went Pyro: fixing to make her blush by normalizing what she was capable of.  
  
"Before I even opened the door," she corrected, passing him back the bottle.

John huffed a laugh.

"Well, in Betsy's case it was the window and Angel was flying."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Level of difficulty's like, a seven, at least," he said. "Gotta give them credit for the effort."

Hesitation came slower, her bravado tickling the more time they spent together, talking. Drinking.

Rogue dragged a finger through the sticky filling smearing the bottom of the pie plate.

She eyed him around the glob of deep purple goo.

Her fingers turned into two, and then three. When she focused on the offending digit, it contemplated blurring into multiples again, but stuck to its solitary self when she closed one eye.

She popped her finger into her mouth, sucking off the boysenberry goo.

It was a moment before she realized how he'd stopped moving entirely to watch her.

Something pulled at her midsection: a curl of tension settling low in her tummy. A flush crept up her throat, pausing to tingle in her cheeks.

"John?"

His gaze lingered on her mouth. Something simmering there, unsaid. A lazy smirk pulled the corner of his mouth up. He offered her the bottle.

"I think my approach might be a bit different," he admitted.

She took the bottle back, setting it between them on the bench. John sat with his legs splayed on either side of the seat, while she was gradually loosing feeling in the leg she crossed under her. Shifting seemed like a poor idea, given that she didn't trust herself not to topple.

"To sneaking into a girl's room after-hours," she echoed.

"Sure." He sniffed, lifting a shoulder.

"Have you?" she asked, suddenly curious that he'd thought it through.

The glance he slanted up at her from beneath the overhang of his fringe danced with firelight embers — a shifting collusion of gold and green in the depths of a dark forest, mottled by dappled shade.

"No fire alarms have gone off lately, have they?" he said by way of answering.

Something had her searching her memory — a twist of curiosity turning into something like relief. Why that was, Rogue wasn't sure.

"Oh," she said, laughing a little too loudly at that. She covered her mouth to stifle the sound as it became a giggle. "Well, I guess that putting everyone out on the lawn waiting for the firetrucks to come would ensure a bit more privacy."

Rapt, he watched her until her face heated from the attention.

This was friendly, she thought. Right? Talking about the other girls that John fooled around with made it safe, because it denied that there was any interest. It made it easier to ignore the subtle shift of their bodies, or how they'd somehow wound up on the same side of the table, facing each other; how, if he moved his knee two inches, it'd brush hers.  
  
She wondered if she'd feel the warmth of his leg through his flannel Panama pants; thought they might be a nice contrast to the hard muscle underneath. It wasn't cold in the kitchen, per se, but they'd sat together over the pie long enough that the oven had cooled, the temperature dropping to a point where goosebumps dotted her knees.

Rogue sucked in a breath and her lungs burned.

"This was nice," she said to him. "I still can't believe you baked."

"Don't tell anyone. It'd ruin my bad reputation."

She scoffed, poking him in the shoulder with a sweater-covered knuckle.

"They'd never believe me, anyway."

The smile he gave her dripped down her arm to the hand she folded away.

"Why do you do that?" he asked. "You're so quick on the recoil all the time."

"What?"

"You're so worried that you might actually feel something that you retreat. Has it occurred to you that I don't mind if you linger a little?"

"You want me to punch you in the shoulder instead?"

His eyes flashed. Grinning, John shrugged. "Take what I can get. Though I think a sharp slap might be a little more to my taste. A little name-calling too."

"What?" She laughed.

He winked.

He was… flirting with her. A little twisted, but he was making her laugh at least.

"I appreciate knowing that you only keeping me around for the promise of abuse," she joked.

He sobered. "That's not why —"

Frowning, he turned away. Cleared his throat.

"You care too fucking much, Rogue. About everyone around you, so much so that you forget sometimes that you've got to care for yourself too. You've got to take a little for yourself from time to time, otherwise, you'll give everything until there's nothing left at all."

Something pinched in her chest at that. "All I do is take, John. My powers —"

"I'm not talking about your mutation." He fixed his gaze on her, pinning her. The feel of the wood bench behind her knees and the sticky crumpling of her nightgown making her uncomfortable. The way he looked at her, though — like he was pissed off about everything in the world, but especially that he was pissed off at her for all the things she couldn't control.

John sighed, his gaze lidding. He raised a hand, his anger dying down to a low simmer in the dim kitchen. With two fingers, he brushed an errant lock of hair from her face, careful to tuck it away from her ear. "I'm talking about what you want. Not what you think you owe."

She hadn't asked him for this. Hadn't asked anything of him at all, and yet it seemed as if there was more — much more — he'd offer if she only said the word.

"If you had one not-birthday wish, Rogue — what would that be?"

What did she want? She wasn't allowed to want things. She wasn't normal enough for that to not be a safety concern for all parties involved.

"What do _you_ want?" she asked instead, so quiet that the words were almost swallowed by the shadows between them.

She felt his breath against her cheeks, lighting on her eyelashes and cresting across her lips.

"Only everything," he murmured.

The air thickened, clouding with his closeness and the strange desire she felt when she closed her eyes to reach for him as if John might offer the balance she lacked. The room spun, and her eyes fluttered open at the feeling of his hands ghosting over her arms — not quite touching, but wanting to. Even with all that soft lambswool between them, it was closer than Bobby had ever dared to get while she remained unguarded.

In the quiet, she thought she heard John sigh into the distance between them, aching with unexplored possibilities that might vanish altogether in the calm, clear light of day when it came.

Words hovered on the precipice, threatening to destroy whatever this had been.

A lump formed in her throat, but Rogue swallowed it down. Pulled back. Shivered.

"I think I might be done for the night," she said, forcing a smile. "It's getting cold, and late."

She could barely see him in the dim, but she imagined that she felt his resignation: an altogether too-familiar flavour of bitter silence laced with missed opportunities.

John paused, and his silhouette turned from her to reveal only the barest hint of remorse in the downturn to his mouth.

Pulling her sweater around herself, she pushed the pie plate away, retrieving her gloves.

The effort to place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze took an effort she didn't quite understand, and that this time, she found it hard to pull away left her fingers seeking out the notch of his collarbone over the muscle.

He sucked in a breath.

Strained, he said, "I can't do much to roll back the clock, but -"

His lighter snapped shut a moment later, the bloom of firelight in the hearth grate roaring soundly for a moment longer than necessary: bathing them both in warm amber. It crackled and spat, and the longer John watched it, the more Rogue noticed the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed to sink into the bench in the same way the bourbon made her puddle closer to the heat.

He glanced at her askance, at the hand lingering on his person, and came to a decision she didn't quite understand, but pulled at her midsection in a way that made her shiver.  
  
"I can do something about the chill," he said, flicking that shadowed gaze up to hers.

She pulled her fingers away, but something had come unhinged — a bubble bursting, loosing the unexpected.

Rogue studied John's features a moment longer than necessary; and John stared right back. It felt a little like an invitation, and a little like a challenge. Part of her, she hardly dared to admit to herself, was enjoying herself. She liked feeling the warmth left by his fingers on the bottle. She liked being able to run her fingers along the underside of the table, finding the bits of things left behind by other students: carved names, hardened bits of gum. She liked… not having to worry so much around John.

The fire warmed her knees, easing away the cold.

"That's not what I meant," he said.

The slide of his fingers over the back of her sweater surprised her, lulling her into a confused stupor for just a moment as he snaked his arm around to her opposite side.  
  
A tug, and he'd eased her towards him. His breath brushed the shell of her ear. Frozen, hands flattened to the table top, Rogue swallowed hard. The wood swam before her, alcohol turning her body pliant with the added warmth.

"You're warm," she managed. Like a blanket. A hard wall of a blanket whose breath tickled the downy hair of her neck; whose hands slipped to her hip to burn through her nightie with their heat.

"I told you you weren't dressed for this expedition."

Except, curled into the embrace of his arms, she thought she'd worn exactly what was necessary —

Maybe she said as much out loud, because when John chuckled, she felt the rumble in his chest.

Her eyes might've rolled back in her head from the overwhelming collision of sensations. Or perhaps that was the bourbon.

"You're drunk," he said in return, the slant of his mouth a surprise brush that fluttered against her own. A smile, and she could taste the heat of him on her tongue.  
  
"You are too."

And he was determined, and demanding, and pulling her into his lap with the sort of care that made her forget for a moment that the silk of her nightie was little more than a breath of air under his hands anyway.

"That's a good excuse -"

Not that he needed one, she thought — but the contemplation sped away under the warm swell of his mouth when he pulled her lower lip between his teeth with a gentle but firm insistence. He smothered it further when he coaxed her mouth open, slipping his tongue against hers. Her body burned. The world burned. And the heat of John Allerdyce tucked against her before the hearth fire made her soul catch as well, igniting on the knowledge that he knew some part of her wanted this — and then, with sluggish determination, her powers drank of him too.

Rogue fell back, reeling with surprise and confusion. She pushed away, putting desperate inches between them. She clapped a hand to her mouth, the feeling of his kiss lingering and not unpleasant at all. It should have been. Oh, it should have been awful — but it wasn't.

"Fuck," John managed, a hand going to his head.

She fumbled for her gloves. How stupid was she? What kind of idiot —

"I'm sorry," she said automatically, wisps and tendrils of feeling and memory catching in her mind. A headache throbbed to life. The room spun.

"That took longer than usual. Right?" he gasped.

That wasn't possible. It couldn't have been —

Her stomach roiled. A confused jumble of knowledge spilling through her; an oil slick catching fire and spindling down through the dark. Illuminating things: Knowledge. Feelings. Confused and misdirected, but in the jumble, she discerned a sliver of something:

Her.

Her mouth. Her laugh. The column of her throat. Her smile. The satin of her gloves.

And more:

The satin of her gloves on her own body. On her own skin. Twisted in the sheets.

Her smile. The column of her throat exposed as her back arches, raising herself to meet him off the bed.

Her laughter muffled into pillows. His mouth on hers. In the hollow of her clavicle. The dimples of her hips. On the inside of her knees.

Gasping, Rogue tumbled from the kitchen bench, panting and wild-eyed, blinking at the picture of herself painted in John's mind that she didn't wholly recognize: a stranger, free and wild.

"I have to go," she managed, struggling to standing and staggering for the door of the kitchen. She caught the doorframe, his gaze a stunned weight on her back, leaving a line of flame tumbling down her spine.

John's fantasies trailed her, leaving her hot and shivering.

"Rogue —" he called after her.

Other things in there too: his jealousy. His desire. His bitter resignation that she could never be his — not because of her mutation, but because of her feelings for his best friend.

It's a gift of sorts, offered freely just like the boysenberry pie. Some part of him wanted her to have it — this not-so-closely guarded secret. She didn't turn back as she ran from the room, the floor tilting as if to throw her off, bourbon bubbling in her stomach, her mouth filling with saliva.

A painting of how things could be, she realized as she bolted up the stairs barely making it to the ensuite bathroom to the sound of Kitty's surprised exclamation at being woken to the sound of retching into the toilet. A portrait of things that could become, if she let them — if she wanted them enough.

It wasn't about making something from scratch, she realized: no, it was about taking the ingredients and making them into something different.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rogue does her best to negotiate the events of the previous evening, her hangover, and her guilt. John's psyche has other ideas, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy fourth of July, American friends!

She kept the curtains shut for one. For two, if she could’ve bolted them, she would have — but when you room-shared with a girl who could literally walk through walls, privacy sometimes came with the risk of accidental invasion. Kitty had long gone off to class, leaving Rogue claiming that she was too sick to attempt history or homeroom, or anything that came in between.

“The flu” kept her bedridden, but Kitty was no fool, and left her with a large bottle of Gatoradeand two Advils. At least she’d stopped throwing up.

Gratitude was a dark room for a pounding head with a sock hung off the doorknob indicating she wasn’t to be disturbed by anybody — not even Bobby, who, incidentally was the last person she wanted to see. She hadn’t yet formulated what she’d tell him, and she’d spent the night negotiating the spins, throwing up, and considering how she’d confess.

She needed a good priest and about a hundred Hail Marys.

Hell, she needed an exorcist for the whisper in her head that said she was overreacting — a voice that sounded curiously like John Allerdyce and had all the persuasion to match when it came to replaying the selective array of images she’d stolen from him.

Truthfully, though, whatever waited for her outside her bedroom posed more of a threat than Magneto himself. John was out there, and she knew that leaving her bed meant the obvious confrontation and whatever would result from it.

She hunkered lower, her stomach roiling.

Shutting herself away for a time to negotiate the feelings absorbed through a kiss was the lesser task: she felt sick. She’d kissed him. Or maybe he’d kissed her.

She’d _cheated_ on Bobby, and John hadn’t batted a damned eyelash in the process.

He’d facilitated it.

He’d _wanted_ it.

And she’d _let_ him.

The whisper of his psyche pointed out that she was the one with her knees pressed together, a day later in bed, fists gripping the sheets as if she could wring out the tension. When Rogue closed her eyes, she got replays of John’s fantasies: seen from his point of view, she could see the crest of her own spine bowed beneath him — the juncture where they met a mixture of pale skin and his own jeans. Leather motorcycle gloves on her ass. Fingers spreading her wider so he could thrust deeper.

She whimpered. Exhaled sharply. Fixed her burning, tired eyes on a point in the ceiling overhead.

Her nipples pebbled hard and eager beneath the blankets, her teeshirt scraping them.

She wanted to shower again — this time maybe with cold water only —but concern that it’d trigger some latent daydream of water and soap and ceramic tile was too precarious.

Beneath his imaginings was the reality she’d experienced. Her hips still possessed the sense memory of his hands shifting the fabric of her nightie (long-discarded into a trash bin: she’d ruined it on her first jaunt to the bathroom last night.) Her sweater carried traces of his cologne from being tucked under his arm. And the rest of her?

She could taste him.

She could feel the assured swipe of his tongue against hers, flavoured with Knob Creek and boysenberry pie. Sugared crust. A little bit burnt but entirely John.

When Rogue touched her lips, she couldn’t reproduce the pressure — the sensation wasn’t the same, and the absence of his mouth on hers… _hurt_.

It hurt because she wasn’t supposed to want it, and she did. It hurt because she shouldn’t have had it at all — and now, knowing what it was like, she wanted _more_.

And that was crazy. That was downright insane. She could’ve hurt him, and the fool boy wouldn’t have minded. Still…

Her heard pounded. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her clothes rubbed her in uncomfortable places. She was too warm. Too feverish. And she couldn’t, for the life of her, stop clenching her legs together to make the throbbing, needy feeling between her legs stop.

She rolled over, pressed her face into the pillow, and bellowed a scream of utter frustration. Pounded the mattress with her fist.

 _Just spread your legs a little_ , came that whisper again. _It’s okay if you want to. Everyone fantasizes._

Breathing hard, she stilled. Listening for a voice that was not her own.

She shivered, thinking of his hands sliding down her sides, raising her up by the hips to put her ass in the air. Caressing the line of her underwear with deft fingers — first, only along the edges of her waist and thighs, and then, slipping lower.

She whimpered, trying to fight it a little longer.

_It’s okay, Rogue._

She felt the graze of his imaginary fingertips sliding between her legs, finding the damp double layer of fabric at her crotch. She shuddered, feeling John’s psyche smile into her hair as if he were right behind her. Leaning over. Hovering too close to be safe.

 _But we_ are _safe here. No one’s going to know._

That wasn’t what she meant, but she could almost feel him pulling her panties to the side. The suggestion was bare in her mind’s eye: she knew what he wanted. And his psyche knew what she wanted too.

Saints.

_Take your panties off for me, Rogue._

They weren’t his hands. Hers. They were hers. Yet, as she groped for her own breast, squeezing hard enough to hurt as if she could stop herself, it felt a little like his psyche were wrestling for control over her own limbs.

Was it cheating if it was in her own head?

She shuddered, feeling John’s smile — teeth close to her throat.

 _You mean this is the first time you’ve done this to yourself? You’ve_ never _thought of me before?_ his psyche asked.

She struggled off the slip of fabric, rolling to her back and arching to tug off her teeshirt too.

_That’s what I thought._

“Shut up,” she told him.

_I always figured that if you weren’t letting anyone else put their hands on you —_

“Don’t finish that thought if you know what’s good for you.”

_Then shut me up, Rogue._

His voice, so strong now, fell quiet. Waiting for her to make the next move.

She glanced at the door. Closed. Locked. Everyone was in class. She licked her lips. Her body ached, her headache abating but not the swimming, overfull feeling — sluggish and hungover —some part of her knew it would make her feel better just to shake off a little of the stress.

John’s psyche held his breath, and she could sense his fingers twitching: restless. Needful. Wanting to join her as she placed her hand on her belly.

 _Lower_ , he murmured.

Her hand locked behind her knee, sliding her thighs open. A strange disconnect happened — it wasn’t that she was completely ceding muscular control over to him, but the phantom John in her mind was absolutely exercising his will over her.

 _Here_ , he said. His/her fingers trailed lower, cresting past the thatch of damp hair and sliding slick over herself.

She groaned, fingers finding a pool of warmth and wetness between her legs that smeared her thighs. Soft, and warm, and wet, she shuddered as she slipped into the folds — tentatively at first — and then with a little more determination and she sought out the right button to push.

 _Not yet,_ John said in her mind, and Rogue curled her fingers into herself, sliding in easily.

She hummed, pressing the heel of her hand into her clit.

 _I said not yet_ , he said again.

She whimpered as she withdrew, but this time, she wasn’t certain who was in control.

 _Slowly_ , he directed. _Show me_.

“What?” She managed, the fingers of her opposite hand rolling her nipple. Pinching slightly. She arced into it.

_Pull down the blanket. Show me how you like to touch yourself._

It was like he was behind her, raising her onto pillows and draping her over his lap so that he could look down on the length of her naked body, spread for him.

She glanced at the door again. If someone were to walk in —

 _No one will_ , he assured her in her mind. _Everyone’s in class._

Phantom hands glided up her ribcage, drawing goosebumps. Her nipples pebbled in the air, and Rogue looked down at herself only half-understanding that she wasn’t alone in doing so. Shuddering, she licked her lips, cupping herself. Squeezing to feel the warmth of her palm — a heat that she could imagine she’d find in his fingers too.

 _Yes_ , John said.

The drag of fingers up her thighs, coaxing her legs open farther.

 _Good girl. Show me how you like it_ , he said.

If she turned her head just to the right, she almost convinced herself that she’d find his mouth there — lips forming instructions for her to follow as she slipped her middle finger past her clit once, twice — dipping into the heat of her core. She sighed, and she imagined John’s hands sliding up her stomach, smearing juices as he brushed her breasts. She imagined his mouth, trailing after his fingers. Laving her skin clean.

 _Both hands_ , he told her. _I want you to imagine it was me inside you when you tighten around your fingers. And I want you to rub your clit as you’re thinking about it._

She slipped a second inside herself, groaning at how tight it felt. Almost too much — unfamiliar and too daring for what she usually liked.

She felt phantom hands caress the backs of her thighs, sliding to the crease where her ass met her legs and pulling her apart so that she could slip in deeper, filling herself.

 _Imagine that I was touching you,_ he said. _Imagine that it was my tongue on your clit. Tasting you. Rubbing you._

She felt the heat of his mouth where she pressed two fingers against the small, shy nub.

_Imagine it was my tongue where your fingers are now._

The muscles tightened around her fingers. Almost —

_Would you like that, Rogue?_

“Johnny —” she gasped; a cry of mingled desperation and desire.

_Is that what you want, Rogue?_

Almost —

The creak of the door on its hinges should have stopped her, but with her eyes squeezed shut, the vision in her mind of John’s head between her legs — chin wet with her juices and eyes alight with some mischief unknown — kept her momentarily distracted. Her body shuddered, so desperately close to the edge of release that she thought she imagined the psyche turn to look over his shoulder with a sly half-smile.

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion registering too late as John — the real John — shut the door behind him with a click.

Surprise pulled her back from the edge, her orgasm pulsing so close to the tipping point she cried out, but modesty had her fumbling for cover. She kicked at the sheets, clumsy and exposed, struggling to salvage what little modesty she had left.

Her body throbbed. She might’ve whimpered — the lack of contact and the shock of being discovered mixing together.

Mouth opening as if to apologize at first, John thought better of it. He set a bag of greasy fast food down on her dresser like the forgotten apology that it was, and raked fingers through his hair. His gaze lingered on her, almost managing to turn away, but finding himself unable —shock at the discovery turning into a pulse that she swore she could hear across the room.

He managed a surprised, “Shit,” that lit his entire face. Then their gazes locked.

Had he heard her?

 _You said my name,_ his psyche whispered. Rogue’s heart pounded. Her fingers were still wet with her juices.

She wasn’t sure what was worse: getting caught by the boy she was pleasuring herself to, or getting caught pleasuring herself to the boy.

And the godforsaken blanket barely covered her. It was stuck on something at the foot of the bed.

The real John licked his lower lip, dragging it into his mouth and biting on it in a gesture that seemed too torturously slow for the moment. His gaze dropped, taking in a bare shoulder. An arm. Her thigh sticking out from the covers.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I heard you halfway down the hall,” he said in a low tone, far too conspicuous to be innocent.

“I put a sock on the doorknob,” she said, unable to catch her breath. “It’s a universal sign _not_ to come in.”

No matter what she was screaming, she wanted to add.

He wiped his mouth, his gaze darkening. He didn’t move otherwise — not towards the door, and not towards her. When he tipped his head slightly to the side, there was something so sublimely predatory about it that she shivered outright, her insides clenching involuntarily.

“You should’ve locked the door,” he observed.

She swallowed thickly, watching his fingers find the latch, the weight of his gaze unwavering.

He waited a beat as if she might stop him.

The sound the lock made punctuated the possibility of his leaving.

Still, she wasn’t telling him to go. She wasn’t telling him much — it seemed, all of a sudden, that there wasn’t an awful lot to say: no denials. No excuses.

“I took a sick day.”

He moved only to slide his hands into his pockets, and that’s when she noticed it: the bulge tenting his jeans, hidden only slightly by his fists.

He looked down, following her line of sight.

Shrugged with a sly half-smile.

“Swear to god, Rogue; I only came by to see that you were all right after last night.”

She wasn’t though. Not a damned bit, if this little demonstration was anything to go by.

The burn in her cheeks painted her guilty as sin.

He chuckled, his gaze darting in all directions, struggling, it seemed to take it in: to negotiate a new piece of the puzzle.

“I was going to apologize.”

She tugged the blanket up to her chin, eyeing him. Nodded. “But you’re not, now.” Her voice sounded small.

He took a breath. Held it a moment longer than necessary. “I didn’t know you had freckles,” he said instead.

The blush sizzled all the way to her ears. She shook, her limbs wanting to melt at the heat in his gaze. She trembled, trying to collect herself, but finding herself unable.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean — it was meant to be private.” Not something he should’ve known, or witnessed, but making the argument that she’d wanted to keep the solution to her frustrations at hearing his voice in her head all night wasn’t an easy way to explain away her actions.

“You’re apologizing for — this?” He scoffed.

 _You were fucking yourself to me,_ his psyche whispered.

“Rogue,” said the real John. “I’m — flattered.”

 _I’m hard as a rock_ , said his psyche. Rogue looked down. Looked away, embarassed, and then back at John’s groin. Her mouth went dry. _That’s what you’ve done to me_ , he said. _Believe me, Rogue. There’s nothing to be ashamed of._

“It’s a symptom of my mutation,” she bit out. “No one else can touch me, after all. So why can’t I?”

John took a step, finally, tension sliding from his shoulders.

He kept his hands in his pockets. Nodding, now, his gaze travelled up the shape of her legs, over her hips, and lingered at her mouth.

She took a breath. “You were in my head,” she ground out. “You were —”

“What?”

“Goading me,” she managed. “You were --“ She struggled with how much she should tell him.

“It looks like you didn’t need a whole lot of convincing.”

Her jaw began ticking.

Softer, he said, “You didn’t finish.”

A plumb of silence, the world cottoning in her ears and dulling ambient noises of the school. She’d been so close. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, moisture slicked her thighs. She felt the discomfort of being wound so tightly that she could snap at any minute, and he knew it. He knew what he’d done to her, because he’d done it before a hundred times over in his mind; in his fantasies.

Her heart gave a squeeze, knowing that this was a turning point that could end it all, and whatever choice she made would allow for the rest of the day to unspool:

Go back to normal and awkward, or —

She took a small breath, and it hitched, still. An image of Bobby flashed in her mind, the somnolent heat of her limbs fumbling him away on the exhale. She clutched the blanket to her chest to keep her hands occupied; to stop herself from reaching for John instead because if she caught him, she’d consume him all.

She might not ever let go.

“I didn’t,” she confessed.

Something passed across his features, warring with himself over the admission.

 _I wanted to be good_ , his psyche whispered.

“Maybe I can help with that,” he said, and picked up the end of the blanket. He tugged once, gently.

Rogue looked up at him, trying so hard not to blink, momentary terror colliding with the reality she found herself in — a minute away from exposing herself. A hairsbreadth away from good and true damnation —

Warmth pooled in her belly, her limbs tingling with all the possibilities offered by the look he wore: hunger, determination, challenge, but most of all: desire. A possession so absolute that he didn’t care if it killed him to have her or not. It defied all good sense. All logic. Rogue’s breathing shallowed. She thought she might faint. It wasn’t that she thought he was suicidal — it was that he looked at her like she was a risk he was willing to take if it meant being closer.

It wasn’t anything she’d ever seen on Bobby’s face before.

And still, her fingers loosened their hold as he pulled at the fabric —

Dragging it from her hands with torturous slowness, his gaze lidding to watch as inches of skin revealed itself to him. Rogue shivered, but not from the touch of cool air on the places where there was sweat.

Her breathing shallowed and bottomed out, her vision growing spotty from the prolonged silence — and John, sinking into her desk chair, slipped it from her ankles to drink her in.

He managed a strangled, “Fuck,” and her heart hammered so hard she thought it might tear from her chest altogether.

No one had ever seen her like this — not naked, not willingly. No one had sat so close to just look at her as if she were carved as art.

He swallowed. Cleared his throat. Unembarrassed and unafraid, he said hoarsely, “I want you to show me what you were doing when I walked into this room.”

Heart jackhammering, Rogue heard herself whimper. She felt herself pull her hands away from her breasts, sitting upright further, shoulders heaving as her breath threatened to leave her.

Placing her hands on her thighs, she slid shyly across her skin, not daring to meet his gaze just yet.

“I’ve never —” She cleared her throat.

“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know what you like,” he said. “Don’t you fucking dare when I can see all of you.”

“Johnny —” she said, almost plaintive.

He sucked in a breath. “Say that again.”

She flicked her gaze up to him and found his hands balled into fists on his knees, something fragile and disbelieving on his face amidst the struggle for self-restraint.

She didn’t want to hurt him like this either.

“It’s torture,” she whispered.

“Say it, Rogue.”

Breathing hard, she nodded. Looked straight at him, and murmured again with all the ache she felt in her body, “Johnny.”

He shuddered. Nodded as if pleased.

“Show me,” he said, and Rogue raised herself to her knees, watching him watch her as she settled back onto her heels, her hands sliding up her waist to cup her breasts, her throat.

She trailed back down the line of his gaze, fingers skimming her skin as John watched her brush herself. She sucked in a small breath, finding her body more responsive and sensitive since she’d started.

“Like this?” she asked.

He shook his head, once. “Spread your legs. Let me see how wet you are.”

Her pussy clenched, heat and wet sliding across the inside of her thighs. She swallowed her nerves, her heart hammering her ribcage, a swoon threatening as she eased open for him.

John made a noise in the back of his throat — a groan that left her shivering.

“That’s fucking — you’re so fucking beautiful,” he managed.

Breathing hard, she flicked her gaze up to his as she slipped her fingers between her thighs with a sigh. Lips parted, she moaned as she grazed over herself.

“Tell me what you feel like,” he said.

Nerves cut her off, her face heating under his stare. John shook his head. “Don’t be shy, Rogue.” More of a plea than a command, she found her nerve.

“I’m warm, Johnny. It’s warm, and wet — and soft. And I’ve never — no one’s ever touched me, here. No one but me.”

He raked his hands through his hair, his knee jiggling with frustration as he watched her.

“Do you like that? Do you like it when I watch you?” he asked.

She looked directly at him through her lashes. “I like hearing your voice in my head when I finger myself. It feels like your hands are on my body, your lips on my ear, telling me to do things.”

“What am I telling you to do?”

She eased her legs a little wider, leaning back so that he could see as she slipped a finger inside herself, dragging it back over her clit when she pulled out. Slipped back in. She groaned, her head rolling to the side to see the expression on his face. His desire, so raw and unbridled, had him gripping the back of his chair.

“I was hoping you had some ideas.” She flashed a smile, her eyes fluttering shut again as she rolled her fingers against her clit.

Nodding, he said, “Right. This isn’t fucking fair at all.” Pulled at the hem of his shirt, dragging his teeshirt over his head and whipping it into a corner.

Rogue stilled, watching him kick away from the chair, tearing at his belt.

“Don’t you stop,” he said, popping the button of his jeans.

“We can’t --“ she began to protest.

“We’re not,” he countered, giving her a flash of teeth. “Not like that.”

She raked over him — the lean muscle and pale skin. Mostly hairless, but with lines cut in the right places. Wide shoulders. Strong arms. Long fingers.

She swallowed hard, realizing that John had less reservations about nudity than she did, and that his hips pointed perfect lines to his groin when he pulled off his pants and slid his underwear to his ankles. Kicked them off, he glanced at her at last to find her staring at the curve of his ass.

He smirked, turning her to face her fully. “Go on.”

She’d never seen a naked boy either, for what it was worth, and while she tried not to, her eyes had a will of their own with the determination to travel south.

Her mouth went dry, her fingers exploring a new, tighter rhythm as she took in his length: the dark thatch of hair, and the straight, smooth cock that pointed at her as he moved to the side of the bed. He wrapped a fist around it, giving it a rough pump.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

No, she wanted to tell him. No, it was not. It was not inside her and she’d never be able to reproduce his girth.

“Do you want to imagine what I would feel like inside you?”

She made a noise of guttural surprise that might’ve been agreement.

He knelt beside her, drinking her in.

“Try two fingers, Rogue,” he offered.

It struck a deep chord, pulling her insides taught. She must have whimpered, because she’d shifted, lying back to allow him a full view — hair spread out on the pillows, legs spread. Obeyed by stretching herself wider for him, her movements restricted as she watched his cock jump in appreciation.

“Lick your lips,” he said, and she obeyed.

He held out a hand, palm up:

“Spit.”

She blinked up at him, confused and addled by her ministrations as much as the request.

When her movements began to slow, he looked her over darkly. “I didn’t say stop touching yourself.”

She rolled to the side, and when that proved too restrictive, got to her knees, one hand between her legs. Her hair fell over her shoulder, and John swept it back. He held his hand out, and watching him, she spat into his palm.

“Fuck your fingers for me, Rogue,” he said, drawing back so that she could see him slide her spit down his cock, wrapping it as if his fist was her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed, palming her clit. Grinding into it.

He liked seeing her like this. He liked what she was doing to herself, for him.

“Good girl,” he said, and she nearly cried out as everything inside her tightened.

He pumped his cock, finding a rhythm that matched hers. Smirking, he told her, “I’m going to be the first person to ever make you come without touching you.”

The world stalled, the air catching in her lungs as pleasure erupted — blossoming full and hard and washing over her. The sound she made matched the torrent — a keen that tore from her throat and exploded out of her with a force she didn’t realize she possessed. Everything seized, and then pleasure followed with a strength that toppled her to the mattress.

John groaned, following.

Laughing with relief.

Rogue moaned into the sheets, and John, to his credit, sank down beside her on the floor.

“Johnny,” she breathed, giggling.

"Took care of that hangover, I guess." 

He smirked, brushed her hair back from her forehead with a shaking hand to press a swift, barely-there kiss to her temple that almost didn’t register. Still, she felt its sizzle — a blistering image/memory of herself fused in the moment from his mind’s eye to hers.

Perfection.


	3. Chapter 3

The last of autumn littered the school grounds, and crunching through the leaves and mulch a day later, Rogue peered without seeing at the skeletal trees — black against a steely sky. A warmth suffused her, though, and wrapped in a scarf and gloves, a chunky sweater and wool tights, Rogue saw the world in a burnished glow. It was a warmth she was trying to hold onto, knowing that if she let herself sink into her thoughts, she’d have a worse time doing what she had to do.

Cold nipped her cheeks, her boots cutting through the frost.

The chill made her think of blankets, and especially, the cocoon John had wrapped her in — bundling her against his chest, his knees tucking behind hers in the aftermath of… whatever that had been. He’d been careful not to graze her skin, but unwilling to release her fully for some time. If she were being honest with herself, she hadn't wanted him to.

They hadn’t spoken since. She knew that they would have to, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d say.

She looked up from her feet to find Bobby in the distance, sitting on a bench under a bare tree. There was someone else with him, and, footsteps slowing, Rogue took a moment to recognize Kitty at his side.

Strange, she thought. They never hung out. Maybe Kitty was just keeping him company. Bobby had suggested they meet before breakfast, but she doubted that pancakes would be on the menu much longer — at least, not the shared variety as a couple.

The pair turned, Bobby’s smile bright and beaming. He raised a hand to wave, and something twisted in Rogue’s stomach.

She blew out a breath, continuing her march towards the inevitable, the sound of leaves a dirge.

Kitty stood up, turned away, and left in the opposite direction. She didn’t look back.

“Hey,” Bobby said, blowing a foggy cloud at her on the exhale. “You look great.”

He guided her back to the bench, smiling and overly bright.

The stone in her stomach expanded, getting bigger. It took a moment for her to realize that it might’ve been her sinking heart.

“Bobby,” she began, preparing to force out her speech.

“Wait, let me go first.”

Oh no, she thought as he reached behind the bench.

“I know it’s not the actual day, but John said we should do something.”

A heartstring pinged at that. So it had been John’s idea — the whole thing. One look at Bobby and she knew that John hadn’t said a thing about the pie, or the bourbon, or what had come after.

Bobby held out a smallish box, wrapped haphazardly.

“I know you always tease me that I’m turning into Cyclops, so.” He shrugged. “This is a loaner. I’m sorry you can’t keep it, but it’d be too obvious if it went missing for good.”

She frowned. What?

“Just open it, and I’ll explain how it works. Just — you know — don’t flaunt it about too much. If anyone sees what that thing is, I wouldn’t be able to explain where I got it or how, so.” He shrugged again. Eager. Shoved his hands in his pockets and his chin into his scarf, blue eyes sparkling with an emotion she never thought she see him wear: mischief.

She tore open the paper to find a nondescript box inside, and inside that a plain silver torque. A ball on either end.

“It’s a necklace?” she hazarded, momentary confusion at his jittery anticipation making her feel worse. It was nice, she supposed — not really her style at all. Not that she deserved it. Her stomach did a flip flop.

He glanced around them, making sure they were alone.

“Not quite.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “I borrowed it from the lab. Dr. McCoy had this thing under lock and key.”

Contraband, then.

A fist wrapped her heart, giving it a squeeze. She asked the dreaded question — an important thing to do when dealing with confiscated objects:

“What does it do?”

—

Appetite lost, Rogue lingered in the morning light, bereft. Bobby had gone off to meet up with Kitty so they could go over some notes for a test, and she’d begged off eating with them, claiming her stomach was still feeling funny, which it was — and that wasn’t a lie.

She still had the box with her when she slipped into the school’s side entrance, clutched against her twisting stomach, considering actually throwing up for real this time and not because she’d drunk too much the night before.

The click and flick of John’s lighter should have startled her more when he materialized in the door to the West wing. It should have offered more of a warning when he looked over her shoulder to see Bobby and Kitty already seated in the parlour, going over their notes and giggling. It should have been warning enough that when she tried to duck away from him, she knew that he’d follow her — fuming as he put things together for himself, even as she tried to put distance between them and Bobby wouldn’t hear the fallout that was about to ensue. Already, she shied from it.

“What’s in the box, Rogue?” John asked her back, hot on her heels as she turned the corridor and headed for the first empty classroom available.

“A gift,” she snapped back.

“From your _boyfriend_?” he spat the word. It was clear that whatever expectations John had had, she’d failed him by hesitation — by not ripping off the bandaid like she should have. She should have confessed. She should have ended it with Bobby, but the moment had slipped through her fingers like a crumbling leaf.

She rounded on him, even as he backed her up into the room, nearly colliding into his chest as he slammed the door after them. He loomed, trying to intimidate her, close enough to kiss — and wasn’t it funny how much of a threat that either thing posed.

“What was I supposed to do?” she shot back.

“Whatever the fuck you want, Rogue. Tear someone’s heart out of their chest.”

“Whose? His?” Brandishing the box like it was all the argument she needed to make, John remained nonplussed. “After _this_?”

Her hips hit a lab table, and it occurred to her they’d detoured into the bio lab.

The distraction was enough to tear the package from her hands, sneering.

“Feeling guilty now about yesterday, are we? Figures. Scared of what it might mean to let go of the things you’re familiar with — those comforts are a bitch to lose, aren’t they? Guess it wasn’t worth it after all --“

“I never said that!” she countered. “It just wasn’t the right time.”

“Must have been some gift —” The lid tore before she could lunge for it to stop him. She hit his shoulder, but John turned with the box, pulling the torque free before she could stop him.

He stilled — a calm stiffness to his shoulders turning his entire body rigid.

Holding it out to her as if to ask if this was what he was worth to her, John’s features twisted. His voice had a a hollow cast to it that gouged her straight through to her spine:

“It’s a power dampener.”

“It’s not mine,” she said quickly. “I’m not meant to keep it, just — Bobby gave it to me and I couldn’t —” Go through with it, she meant to say, but stopped at his expression.

A shadow crossed John’s features. “And you ran back here to snap it around your neck. Collared like a mongrel dog. His pet.”

“He wanted to give me an opportunity —” she tried to argue.

“To fuck him.”

The words echoed. She drew back as if slapped. Far be it for Bobby to not have those sort of thoughts, he hadn’t pressed her. He _never_ pressured her. Hell, he hardly even asked. It wasn’t that he was scared, she didn’t think; Bobby just didn’t operate at the same intensity as John. He didn’t have the same boundaries, or lack thereof, and Bobby Drake absolutely had a hold on that key filter that kept respect for her wishes at the forefront of their relationship.

Maybe that’s why, at almost seventeen, powers notwithstanding, she was still a virgin after dating him for a year.

John searched her face, anger simmering just below the surface.

“Is that what you want?”

The sound caught in her throat, and weakly, her heart lodging into her throat, she managed a whispered, “No,” as her eyes began to burn.

He didn’t hear, or didn’t want to. She wasn’t sure. “I’ve only ever wanted to feel something,” she tried to explain. It went beyond touch. It was intimacy. And, she’d learned, sometimes skin on skin contact didn’t necessarily lead to that. Sometimes there was something more involved.

A grim twist of determination curled his features. “I must have failed fucking spectacularly in that regard.”

The lick of flame leaping from his palm was too fast and too violent for her to have stopped him. It guttered outward, the force of it removed from the source — she hadn’t even seen him pull out the lighter — but as the blaze engulfed the collar, Rogue lurched away before it could catch her clothes too.

John shook his fingers, laughing as bits of melting metal and electronics sizzled and dropped to the floor.

Breathing hard, she glared at him. Her nails scored ridges into her gloves, the fabric straining at the knuckles.

“You absolute asshole!” she shouted, her face burning. “Why would you do that?”

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry! Unlike Bobby, I’d never keep you shackled for your own comfort!”

She reeled back as if struck.

“This wasn’t about you.”

“That much is clear,” he snapped.

“That’s not what I meant!”

“You made your choice,” he shot back.

“I didn’t make any choice,” she countered.

“No choice is a choice!”

“If I was going to use a dampener, I’d have used it with you,” she snarled.

“I don’t _want_ you to,” he bit back.

That stung. He didn’t mean it, she tried to reason, her face tingling with heat. She could feel the burn of angry tears threatening. 

A moment’s hesitation, John breathing hard as he weighed what he’d just said. He opened his mouth to say more — maybe to explain, but she wasn’t holding her breath. With John, you’d sooner suffocate than get an apology.

She swiped at her face.

His expression hardened. “How do you ‘feel’ now?” he mocked.

Yes, the prospect of a temporary freedom from her powers intrigued her. No, she hadn’t intended to use it. He didn’t know that, though: all John saw was what he wanted to — a desperate girl who couldn’t make her own damned choices for herself.

She sniffed. Bared her teeth. “How about I show you?”

Rogue advanced on him, tearing off her glove in the two steps it took to swing at his face. He ducked left, grabbing for her in a parry that would’ve made Logan proud, ducking under the swing and turning her — leaving her with a twist of skin and the bite of pain to match.

Her elbow snapped around with the movement as they spun, aiming for his nose but missing by a mile as he caught her at the hip. Yanked her forward.

“Don’t hold back, now,” he puffed into her hair, chuckling.

She struggled, trying to twist out of his grasp. “You’re _such_ a jerk sometimes, John.”

“Oh, not all the time? Isn’t that why you couldn’t break up with your boyfriend for me?”

“You never _asked_ me to.”

“Should I have to?” he demanded, shoving her away. “This is obviously about your boundaries, Rogue — not mine.”

“It wasn’t the right time,” she repeated. “Bobby doesn’t deserve what I’ve done.”

“ _We’ve_ done,” he corrected, breathing hard. “He’s _my_ best friend.”

He let her go, and Rogue staggered a step. Free to stand on her own, she let his words sink in a little bit — took a moment to search for the same conflict in his features that she felt in every ounce of herself. John shrugged, looked away, and back with more steel than before — like if he was going to beat himself up for it, he’d do it in private.

“I don’t regret it.”

Chin crumpling, she fought the urge to cry.

Neither did she.

“Fine, but he doesn’t deserve the delivery I’d planned while he’s just being sweet — when he was just trying to do right by me, no matter how misguided the effort.”

John frowned. “Misguided,” he echoed. Wiped his face, cupping his mouth with his palm. Shook his head as if words defied him.

“I wasn’t keeping it.”

“But you took it.”

“So?” She almost laughed. “Wouldn’t you? If you were me, wouldn’t you at least consider it for a second?”

“No,” he spat. “ _No_.” As if it were obvious.

Exasperated, she tore her glove back from him. Somehow, in the struggle, he’d managed to wrest it from her grasp. “It would’ve looked weird if I hadn’t taken it. It was a _gift_.”

Flatly, he asked, “Did you like mine better?”

Tears spilled over her cheeks, running hot to her chin and down to her neck where she swiped at them. Sniffing, she said to the blurry figure before her, “Go to hell, John Allerdyce.”

“Rogue,” he said, desperate and grasping as she pulled away from him.“ _Marie_.”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

“You’re perfect,” he snarled. “You are powerful, and smart, and fucking stunning. Don’t you get that?”

“I’m lethal.”

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.” Anger not yet abated, he took her by the back of her head — fingers in her hair, desperate and ferocious as his mouth collided with hers.

Her hands came up of their own accord, gripping his wrists as John forced her mouth open with his own. Gasping into it, his tongue swept hers as he pulled her against him. Tingles of sensation bowled her over, a trickle of emotions and sense impressions coming at her fast and hard, catching her as easy as it was to punch the air from her lungs. In surprise, and some sort of desperation, she fisted her hands into his shirt — and John, with the sort of desperation that comes with feeling like you’re about to lose something precious, only held her harder. Lifted her so that her feet dragged the ground with the force of his kiss.

The drain swept them as subtlety as a hammer, and groaning, he pulled back. Set her down atop the table’s surface. Rolled his hands up her back and over her shoulders as if he could memorize the feel of her body — a man accustomed to drowning, but trying to swim.

Rogue’s knees threatened to buckle, and clutching at him, they sank together.

He panted, “Worth it,” and left another lingering kiss below the line of her eyelashes.

Whimpering at the image left behind, she saw herself in tears, and felt the pain it caused him, knowing he was responsible.

“ _I_ don’t need you to wear something like that,” he insisted. “ _I_ will never ask you to cripple yourself for my dumb ass.” He exhaled harshly, struggling with it. “ _I_ would rather spend a week in a coma, in the hospital, if that was the best alternative to seeing you in that —” He forced out the word, “leash.”

But she didn’t want to see him hurt. Why couldn’t he understand that?

“You’re a goddamned battering ram, John.”

Nodded, he chuckled between breaths, eyes closed. “Would you have me any other way?”

He squeezed her against his chest, holding her upright, hands roaming over her coat. Putting her forehead against his collar, his ministrations turned softer when he realized she wasn’t tearing away from him.

“I would have you happy,” she said, muffled into his shirt.

He nodded, and his heartbeat pounded against hers amidst the swell.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“I know.”

“But I meant it.”

She knew that too. “Be less of a shit, okay? Please?”

He chuckled, out of breath still, but recovering. Peeled away enough to peer down at her. Brushed her hair from her forehead with care not to touch her skin. Barely gave her bared hand a glance, even as she clutched it to herself as if she might spare him.

“You started it,” he countered.

She poked him in the ribs and he chuckled. Stole a butterfly kiss from her other cheek.

“Now you’re just living dangerously.”

She felt him smirk into her hair. “You’re not stopping me.”

Frankly, she didn’t think he was capable of it. He pulled back, his hips brushing her knees, pinning her in place. A fine sheen of sweat dotted his forehead, and he wiped at it. His color was already returning. He sobered as his eyes cleared of the fog that her mutation sometimes left.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Her hands settled against his stomach, hard muscles taut beneath her fingers. Lightly, she traced the contours she found there, uncertain if it was at all welcome, nervous that it was too much contact, even in small doses.

“What are we going to do about this?”

The muscles under her hands jumped as he took a breath. Nodded as he pulled back further. Took a breath to steady himself. “Well,” he sighed. “We could just burn the whole fucking place to the ground. Make a clean getaway. Start over in the city. No one would find us.“

Rogue frowned up at him.

“Because everyone would be dead.”

He shrugged, thumbs finding her hips. Embers danced in his irises.

“Was just a suggestion.”

“I think I preferred your suggestions of the other variety. The less murdery kind,” she told him.

He slowed to a stop.

Something in his expression darkened, turning serious as he peeled open her coat, giving her a once over that gave her heart a little skip. Made a little noise of interest at her skirt, and when Rogue looked down, she saw why: a quarter inch strip of skin peeked between the tops of her thigh highs and the wool hem. It was just enough to hint at the straps of her garter. Everything else of her was covered; swaddled in layers that were becoming uncomfortable now that they’d been inside for some time.

She plucked at her scarf. Swallowed her nerves as John’s thumbs ran along the inside of her coat, peeling back the material from her shoulders to reveal her shape beneath it.

Rogue tugged the scarf from her neck. Shook out of her sleeves and let her outer layers drop. She held his gaze the whole time.

“I didn’t say you could take it off,” he said, and a weight dropped to her groin as everything inside her wound a little tighter.

She blinked away from the intensity of his stare, and carefully, fingers hovering just over her cheek, he guided her back to him. “Look at me,” he said, his voice pitched dangerously low.

“John,” she said on the exhale. “I don’t know what this is.”

His gaze flicked to her mouth. “Do you want to stop?”

She could. She’d say the word and he’d back off. Did they need to define it, she wondered? Did she need to understand the parameters of what they were doing to better control the situation? Herself?

Part of the reason why she wanted to talk to Bobby that morning — why she wanted to end it, she’d later realized — was partially to maintain what little integrity she had left, and partially because this thing with John, whatever it might be, needed more room to run. She wanted to see for herself if it would catch and burn if she gave it air.

Rogue met his gaze. Raised her chin. Squared her shoulders.

“No,” she said.

Something shifted in his expression; softening almost. His hands grazed the sides of her thighs, making her jump at the contact.

She shivered as he pressed his palms to her skirt, sliding his hands down to her knees and running circles with his thumbs, hooking the backs to caress the sensitive warmth he found there. Teasing.

John gave her a small smile that she thought spelled more relief for him than reassurance for her, and gulped audibly. “Good,” he managed. Not ‘I’m glad’ or ‘Okay.’

A pronouncement: good.

They could figure this out, she hoped. They had to — when there was time to talk things through.

She looked down, at the gentle suggestion made by his hands, and yielded when he lifted her knees from the edge of the table.

“Lean back,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to fall.”

A beat of silence stretched into something edged with tension. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. His gaze settled on her mouth, his consideration meandering down her throat, to the nape of her neck. Lower. Lighting a sizzling trail.

“What about class?” she asked.

He searched her features. “I think a different sort of lesson is in order today.”

With gentle firmness, John pulled her legs apart, settling into the cradle made by their parting. Hands trailed up her thighs in soothing strokes, thumbs kneading. His attention didn’t waver, wanting to make sure that the contact wasn’t too much: as much a challenge as it was a temperature gauge.

“Is this alright?” he asked in a tone that suggested he knew the answer already.

She nodded, her breath catching when those same fingers slid around her ass — a brief warmth she felt straight through to her middle. He didn’t linger, instead slipping up her waist and ribs. Long, soothing strokes —

“Is this?”

Everything over clothes. No possibility of skin to skin contact.

Still, she held her breath.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you feel safe with me, like this?” he asked, easing closer to her.

No, not a bit. She felt like she was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode under his careful attention.

“You’re testing me,” she said.

He made a noise of agreement, leaning into her space, pulling her towards him in the process so that she could feel the heat of his skin as he slid his hands around and up her sides, the tips of his thumbs barely brushing the undersides of her breasts.

She sucked in a breath.

“I want you to see that I’ve recovered from that kiss,” he said. “And I want you to know just how careful I am with you — that we can stop whenever, however, you get uncomfortable — but since you don’t have control over your powers, I am going to take control of you so that you don’t have to worry about that.”

The backs of his fingers slid up her throat, guiding her chin up with only the barest suggestion — a ghost of a touch where the edges of her clothing stopped. The heel of his hand settled over her heart, his fingers in her collarbone. It was the strangest sensation: she couldn’t remember the warmth of someone’s hand ever settling over that part of her body, feeling her heartbeat.

“If you’ll let me,” he said. “I have a few ideas.”

She could feel her heartbeat pick up — the steady rhythm stuttering into a canter, and then a trot. He did too, under his touch. John smirked.

He slid his arm around her waist, drawing her flush against him so that she could feel every dip and plane of him against her: solid and sure. Fingers kneaded into the base of her spine, arcing her towards him. He dipped his head. Smiled into her throat. Breathed directly into her ear so that she shivered in surprise at the rush of heat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. Did his mouth seem fuller somehow? Softer?

“Well, if you don’t put that glove back on, then I might be in trouble. You can touch me where I’m clothed, Rogue — bare handed. Bare legged. Bare assed. I don’t give a shit. Get naked and rub yourself all over me, but let me handle the variables so you don’t have to worry. Please,” he said. And then into her ear, smiling, “Please get naked and rub yourself all over me if that’s what turns you on. Oh my fucking god.” He chuckled with a groan.

“Pig,” she said, but it lacked venom. Something thrilled in her at the image — that she’d even consider it at all.

“Give me your hand,” he said, taking back her glove. He shook it out. “I want to do this right.”

She drew back, the absence of heat startling as she offered her deadly, bare fingers to him. He rolled the sleeve up, crunching it into a smaller opening that would fit her fingers through.

“Maybe you should let me do it,” she offered.

The look he fixed her with made her think better of it.

“Trust fall,” he said. “A proof you’re not going to fuck me up if you just --“ he stopped.

“Trust you?” She finished for him.

His adam’s apple bobbed. “Well I was going to say, ‘fuck me’, but sure.”

Heat blossomed hard and fast between her legs, rising to burn up her neck and settle in her face. She felt the tingle in her cheeks. John noticed, flashing a rare, wicked smile at her.

“Hand,” he instructed, holding open the glove.

She scrunched her fingers together, hyper-aware of the small opening and the nearness of his exposed fingers. He grazed her, but the contact was so swift that he’d tugged the satin over her digits and over her palm, smoothing the satin up her arm as if he were rolling on a condom.

“Oh,” she let slip, the superimposed image hitting her low and hard, her body responding with an involuntary squirm.

He stopped, the heat of his hands penetrating the fabric, watching her. It hardly took more than a moment for him to register the squeeze of her thighs at his waist, and responding, he asked, “You like that?” And smoothed his thumbs down her arm, fixing the fingers straight and proper around her hand so that the ridges aligned properly. He lingered too long between each digit, watching her face as he smoothed his thumbs over her palm.

Rogue sucked in a breath, and said too high and tightly, “Yup.”

It was far too small a thing. A first, no doubt — but sensual in way that was hard to describe. Intimate, like he’d discovered something rare and precious, and he wanted to indulge it now that he’d discovered her secret.

She shuddered on the exhale, but John didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he guided her by the wrist under the hem of his teeshirt, pressing her palm against his stomach. Against the skin.

“Okay?”

Nodding, Rogue managed a small, “Yes,” that choked off as John pulled his shirt over his head completely.

“Still?” he breathed, drawing her other hand to his mouth and placing a kiss into her palm. Watching her, he smiled as she shifted again, fighting the urge to get closer. Wanting to.

“I watched you put your hands all over yourself for me,” he said — a low rumble of interest curling in her belly. “When I touch you,” he said, “I want it to be because you’re unafraid. Because you’re so fucking wet for me that you can’t bear another second without wrapping your legs around my waist. I want you to beg me for it, because you know that I would never have this any other way.” He brushed his lips over hers — a butterfly of a kiss. His tongue darted out, tasting. Too quick to transfer more than a flash of what was in his head. He smirked. She saw only the invitation.

 _Touch me_ , his psyche whispered. _Touch me because you can too._

So Rogue did.

Shyly, at first, her fingers feathered over the hard ridges of his abdominals, dipping into the valley of his sternum running the lines as she saw them. She stopped, hands curling, and John shook his head.

“You weren’t this fucking timid yesterday.”

She stiffened, shifting her position a little as if screwing up the courage, and did something she’d thought of often but never had the opportunity for: stretching upwards, she pushed her fingers into his hair, combing through silky brown.

“Ah,” he said, his eyes half-shutting.

Head-tipped back, he didn’t see her slide from his thigh to his waist, jerking open the first three buttons of his fly.

“Shit,” he laughed, too late. She gripped a fistful of his hair, holding him in place.

Rogue’s fingers brushed steel, her palm folding around him through his boxers, finding him already semi-erect and slipping out of the fabric.

He hardened, grunting at the forcefulness of her demand; more when she tightened her grip. Gave his cock a squeeze and stroked downwards, just as she’d seen him do to himself the day before.

The noise he made when she slipped inside his boxers to better wrap him was guttural, reciprocated by his hands turning vicelike on her thighs.

“Fuck, Rogue.”

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, pausing.

John made an abbreviated noise that wasn’t far from a whimper. “No, god.” His death grip eased. “Fucking _satin_.” He laughed, and his psyche’s answering groan explained it all. He’d imagined this. He’d fantasized what it’d be like to have her opera glove-covered hands on his body. A _lot_.

She released her hold own his hair, shyness starting to creep back in as she slid over his hard planes, dipping lower to offer more freedom.

“It’s okay,” he said, and the look his his eyes said more than that. His cock jumped in her hand, leaking wetness from the tip. It was smoother than she thought it would be, running her fingers around the head, exploring for herself what all the fuss was about. She thought the skin might be silkier than the rest of him.

“I’ve never --“ she began, looking up from her careful ministrations to see him watching her. Predatory and interested, darkly focused in a way that made her heart begin hammering.

“You surprised me,” he said, his voice gruff. “Make a circle with your hand around it. There.”

She felt her pulse all the way to her groin, and shifting, felt the way in which the moisture between her legs slicked the insides of her thighs. Warmth spread through her belly, fractured bits of the moment and her daring crashing together.

She slipped her other hand into his boxers, and John’s eyes fluttered as she cupped his balls.

“Fuck.”

She took a breath, and it shuddered, her nipples pebbling. She’d never seen him like this. She’d never imagined that she might have an influence on someone quite like she was doing now.

His hands slid up her arms, past her turtleneck, and into her hair, tipping her face up to him.

“You’ve thought about this too,” he said as he pushed into her fist.

She shivered, her hand finding a rhythm.

Licked her lips as he watched her; as he focused on her mouth when she brought her glove, dotted with his pre-cum to her mouth to lick at the small spot of moisture.

“I want to be a good student,” she whispered, and John’s answer was whip-quick, pulling her hands from his pants, holding her wrists.

“You’re a little too good,” he said, choking the words as his breath left him. “You’re going to make me come.”

“Don’t you want to?”

He shook his head, once, abruptly. “Not like this. Not without you.”

A slow wave of desire rolled over her as he pulled back, his expression shadowed by need. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders as he reigned himself back, hands fisting in her hair with gentle firmness.

“Trust me?” he asked. She knew what he’d do before he leaned in, his breath hot against her mouth.

Her breathing hitched, her body responding to the temptation in spite of the danger it posed. Her fingers found his thighs, his hips. John’s mouth parted, and she breathed into his mouth, “Yes,” before he loosed his hold on her, cupping the back of her head.

Control.

This was about keeping control of the situation so it wouldn’t get out of hand; so neither of them would take too much of the other.

Yes, she could trust him in that regard. She just couldn’t trust herself.

He lowered his mouth to hers with deliberate care, restraining himself with excruciating steadiness as he parted her lips with his tongue — sliding into her mouth and filling her with his kiss. Tasting. He pulled back before the drain reached its peak, and she saw herself once again through his eyes:

She was wearing entirely too many clothes.

He was thinking of what it would feel like to use his mouth on her — to kiss her like that, but at the apex of her thighs instead.

Shuddering, her clothes rubbed her skin, turning uncomfortable and impossible, and she squirmed on the table before him.

“I love it when you make those noises for me,” he said.

Her heart hammered.

Had she made a sound?

“I love it when you cry out my name,” he said, barely a rumble under her hands and against her lips. “And I want to make you do it again. And again. And again.”

This was another of those turning points, she realized, her whole body beginning to tingle. This was the beginning of some new chapter in a book she didn’t know she was reading, and it began with the understanding that he’d left it to her to decide if she wanted to turn the page.

She did. Lordy, she did.

He withdrew. Assessing. Taking stock of the tight way in which she held herself back from him. Fighting her own body’s desires.

There was nothing between them as she nodded, “Yes.”

Just the laboured rise and fall of their chests. Dry mouth. Her tongue sticking to the roof. And the heat coming off him? She didn’t dare look away. Didn’t dare move. An inch was dangerous. An inch was invitation.

Perched on the edge of the table, walled in by his attention, he held her in place with his gaze — hands at his sides, fingers twitching so close to her knees he might’ve brushed her thigh highs.

A half inch of thigh peeked between them and her skirt, drawing John’s attention as much as the plumb line to her belly pinged as his gaze dropped: blooming heat between her legs.

Rogue didn’t dare move.

He lifted his gaze. His mouth moved, but the meaning was lost on her beneath the gravel of the command:

“Pull your skirt up.”

Hoarse. Quiet.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. She fought not to squeeze her knees together, surprise turning the heat between her legs into a furnace.

He didn’t move, but neither did he waver. There wasn’t room for argument, only the coiling tension between them: the eight of twelve impossible inches of space.

Oh, but she was imagining his hands even as hers acted of their own volition, hooking under the hemline and tugging up the wool, catching flesh.

John looked down, watching her.

Rogue stilled.

Three inches of bared skin were displayed to him: a porcelain band, pliant enough for the restrictive fabric to leave an indentation in her flesh. The elastic straps that buckled her tights to her waist pointed to his legs, diverging only slightly as her muscles shuddered from the effort of holding herself together.

His breath bounced back to her as he drew forward an inch, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as if he were restraining himself.

“Higher,” he said.

Rogue swallowed thickly. Lips parting, she looked up to him to find only determination waiting for her. Demand. A hunger in his gaze that dropped to her mouth, following the line of her throat down and lingered just over her — filling her mouth with the scent of him. His heat. The sheer struggle of it.

“I want you to pull it up to your waist, Rogue,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Her vision tunnelled, heat pooling between her legs turning the lining of her panties slick. She shifted, her insides curling tighter and more demanding with tension.

“I want to know what color panties you’re wearing,” he croaked. “I want to see how soaked they are. Rub my fingers against that soft, warm part of you to see how wet I’ve made you — press my thumb against your clit as I run my hand along every curve, sliding so close to being inside you —”

She made a sound, and John’s gaze flicked up to her mouth. Her eyes. Pinning her there as the world narrowed to a point where she found that he’d come closer, spreading her knees for her as he occluded the world around them.

They breathed together. Her eyes fluttered. Her hands fisted in her skirt, trying to fight the need to give him exactly what he demanded.

“— And then I’m going to tear them the fuck off of you.”

She whimpered.

Her core pulsed hot and tight, her limbs slackening, fumbling her clothes.

She needed him to touch her. She needed to wrap her legs around her waist and press against her centre, his desire overriding good sense — drowning her in the flood of sensation. So much all at once was a deluge.

His lips next to her ear left her shivering and feverish as she gripped the table edge, the rough brush of his slacks grazing the sensitive skin of her inner knees becoming maddening —

“You’re going to spread your knees for me, Rogue,” he said. “Because I want to see that tight little pussy of yours when I make you come for me.”

Her head fell back, finding his dark expression watching her. Her core throbbed. Needy and hot, leaving her squirming her skirt higher. It hitched over her hips, burning lines into her flesh where she forced up the fabric.

“Good.” His breath was a puff of steam against her skin.

John’s hands settled against the table on either side of her, his hair brushing her face in feather locks that left her aching to press her palms to him; to curl her fists into his shirt as she used her legs to drag him to the place that she wanted his friction.

“You’re so fucking hot right now,” he murmured. “I can smell that sweet perfume from here. God, Rogue — god you smell so good. I want to taste you so fucking bad.”

Damp heat curled down her throat and over her chest as he skimmed down her front. Flicking his gaze up to her, something dark and hungry resided there — keeping her in place as much as the knowledge that sudden movements meant certain danger were she to brush against him with her skin. It turned her pulse thready, her heart hammering in her ears.

“Please --“ she managed, but it came out a whimper.

Muscles tensed from holding herself back, her limbs shuddered with the effort. Her legs quaked, her back arching — she just needed to feel him against her once more. Just one more time.

“Keep your knees on the fucking table,” he said.

She might’ve cried out in frustration.

A wash of chilled air filled the space between them as he stepped away from her, cooling the damp fabric covering her sex and leaving her winded and exposed, her nipples puckering with the sudden absence of his body heat. Raking against her bra, the friction left her shuddering.

Rogue’s eyes fluttered open, finding John’s attention fixed on the juncture between her thighs. He knelt between her legs, a look of near-reverence on his face. Breathing hard, he wet his bottom lip -- drinking her in. Revelling in it.

It occurred to her that she’d never shown herself to anyone. Though the thought had crossed her mind before, it seemed like torture to even suggest it to Bobby: her nakedness before John, though, it wasn’t about restraint. To be seen by him so fully was an agony that rang pure and torturous with pleasure. The muscles in her stomach quaked a little to feel his breath against her thighs. Warm and moist, it made it so easy to imagine his mouth trailing kisses up the path his gaze travelled. 

Strangled, he managed, “I love that you’re wearing white.”

Cotton. Her panties were simple cotton. Soaked and probably translucent with her desire, but still — she hadn’t thought they’d get this far. She hadn’t expected —

He lifted his hand, a mingling of emotions chasing each other across his face. He closed his teeth, almost in a grimace as he reigned in control of himself.

“Can I touch you — here?”

Even the heat of his hand hovering in the space closest to where she needed him most was agony.

“ _Please_ , Johnny —”

“Say it,” he ground out.

She fought to get ahold of herself, her body arching towards him in desperation so absolute that she almost threw herself from the table.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please touch me.”

She might not’ve been wearing anything at all for how soaked through he cotton was when pressure bloomed, steadfast and firm, against the edge of her panties. The graze of fingers against the thatch of hair when two fingers slipped through the leg hole and across the crotch made her jerk in surprise, her core tightening from the shock of it so quick and hard spots danced across her vision.

Rogue cried out, surprise registering at the rough pull of fabric. She felt a pop rather than a tear as the elastic tore, the sting catching up to her hips a moment later as John raised the fabric to his face, sliding her wetness through his fingers.

“Is this for me?” he asked, and she couldn’t find the words to argue. Instead, Rogue whimpered.

His hand on her knee made her groan, her eyes rolling back. He caught her before she could fall, her hands fluttering and tentative at his shoulders. Her cunt throbbed in need, heat pulsing through her in waves.

“Fuck,” he managed, sinking to his knees before her as if in worship. “Fuck, Rogue. Show me that beautiful little pussy.”

She moaned low and loud in her chest, feeling the weight of him so desperately close as his hands slid up her calves, gripping behind her knees and pulling her apart before him: giving him everything as if offered up at last.

Fear wound through her, sobering but not as persuasive as it should have been. He oughtn’t have been able to put his hands on her skin. She’d feel the pull of her mutation any moment, as dependable as anything.

“You’re safe with me, Rogue,” he said roughly.

She sank her own fingers into her breast and squeezed as if the pain would focus her.

The reverent brush of his fingers across the thatch of her delicate trim made her lurch, her insides hypersensitive to even the lightest touch. She moaned his name, “Please, Johnny --“

Her body bucked against the table at the delicate glide of fingers ghosting over her thighs, shifting fabric — bunching her shirt as he cupped a breast in his hand. Squeezed with the sort of assuredness that made her tighten for him again.

“Please what, Rogue?”

“Please fuck me,” she said. “Please, god — Johnny, please. I need -- I need you to —”

“You want me to fuck you?”

She nodded. She didn’t care how. She needed him to — she needed —

“I need you inside me.”

He rose, leaning over her, only the slightest warmth against her core indicating that he’d shifted. The accompanying pressure of his palm sobered her, and Rogue’s eyes fluttered open.

“Good,” he said. “I want you to look at me when I touch you.”

She shifted, trying to see for herself — trying to squirm from his hand as she realized he was slipping a finger into her folds, gliding against her clit in a way that left her forming shapes with her mouth, but not allowing the protest to form.

He squeezed her ass, his gaze lidding.

“Shh,” he said, pressing his thumb against her clit, the bud of tension tightening. So close to blossoming into relief. “I’ve got you now.”

He drew back, and she opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, he slipped a finger inside her. Rogue gasped, her hips lifting to give him better access as John smiled lazily at her.

“Good girl,” he said again, curling his finger as if asking her nicely to “come here.”

Stars exploded behind her eyes before she could protest further.

It pressed against a part of her that tightened around him, trying to hold him in place, but John had other ideas as he slowly, steadily withdrew and pressed back inside her. And then he did it again. And again, fucking her slowly with his hand.

It was better than when she was by herself. It was worse, because he’d brush the point of contact she needed, but refused to let her have it fully.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said into her ear, “so I’m going to take this nice and slow. And when you’re ready — when you want more —”

A second finger joined the first, and gasping, Rogue looked down to find the straining muscles of his forearm as he slowly, steadily filled her with his fingers.

She gasped, seeing the rolled latex bottom of a medical glove — stolen, no doubt, from the laboratory classroom.

“Think of it like a condom for my hand,” he murmured.

He must have pulled them on when he was on his knees in front of her. She flushed, opening her mouth, but the sound turning into a gasp as he raked over that spot again — the point at her centre that pulled everything so much more tightly together.

“I’m sorry it’s not skin, but it’s the closest I could get.” A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he continued, a rhythm building so that she tipped towards him. He pushed her down by the hip, fucking her with two fingers, thrusting deeper. A choked noise of pleasure and demand spilled from her mouth. His breath was hot against her lips. He tasted like cinnamon and cedar wood smoke.

“I wanted you to know that the things we imagine aren’t as good as reality can be. I wanted you to reconsider that perfect fairy tale ending you dreamed of — hoping for a prince or a knight or whatever to come and save you.” His lips were so red. So soft and inviting.

She rocked against the heel of his hand, his thumb circling her clit — never quite hitting it dead on so her knees shook, but also not giving her what she wanted.

“I know you don’t really want the prince in this story, Rogue. You want the guy who knows you’re capable of saving your fucking self.”

Almost — she gasped. So very close to the edge.

“And the guy who knows you’re capable of saving your fucking self also knows you can take care of yourself. That you can pleasure yourself. That you can have any-fucking-thing you want at all in this life, all you need to do is ask —”

She gripped his shoulders, raising herself up so that she could grind herself into his hand.

“Please,” she begged.

“He knows that you know what you want. All you have to do --“

Her body went rigid, every coil and curl inside her pulling taught, straining against that prolonged beat that stretched into an impossible oblivion. Almost — almost —

“— Is come for me.”

Her world exploded, shattering her around him with a shout and a cry as she fell back. He caught her, diving after her though still connected, pulling her back to him as he continued pumping his fingers into her — slower now, but easing her back to the table.

“Johnny,” she cried as she came. “Johnny.”

“I’ve got you, Rogue,” and slipped his hand from her to sooth her clit, drawing out her pleasure in tortuous, long throbs.

Her head fell back, her body puddling.

John drew her towards him, weakened and rippling with the aftershocks. “Good girl,” he said, pushing her skirt up. Pulling her towards the edge of the table.

The tear of a plastic packet was muted, and head lolling to the side, her eyes fluttered to watch him as he rolled the condom over his length — pulled between the slit of his boxer shorts like a buffer.

He wet his lip, gloved fingers tracing patterns over her legs to slip under the straps of her garters, appreciative of all the things she kept restrained.

“Johnny?”she asked, her voice small. The lab table was cold under her back, her body warming the metal surface.

She felt the press of him against her inner thigh, a brush of latex and heat that grazed her sensitive core as he leaned towards her. Pulled himself higher.

“I can stop,” he offered.

The pulse of his sex was hot and hard, ready for whatever she needed, brushing against her, making her shiver. Stopping where he was, he hovered over her, hands on her waist, waiting.

She rolled her hips, brushing the head of his cock with her wetness, and he shuddered.

Looked at her with a heat that promised everything and more.

Her cunt throbbed in anticipation, tightening again as if wanting to take him into herself and hold him there. Drain everything from him. Oh, saints, she thought. She reached for him, drawing him closer. Nodding. Shivery and hot all at once.

“Slowly,” she said. “Please. Just in case —”

He nodded, taking a breath, hands trailing over her, laying kisses over her clothes. Into her hips. Pulled her halfway up to slide her closer and pushed her hair from her face.

“I can do slow,” he said in a rush.

She held a breath, and he moved — pressing for entry, head bowed to hers. 

It hurt. Like he was too much for her all at once, even though he moved slowly.

She whimpered, and he drew her to him so that her legs wrapped his waist. Face pressed into her neck, he gathered her body in his arms and gripped her sides, holding her tenderly so that she wouldn’t squirm, even as he struggled for control to not move too quickly; to not cause her pain.

Rogue’s pussy throbbed, but the shock of the ache she felt lingered as they settled together.

John held her, pressing kisses to her throat. Her collar bone. Her hair. The heat of his mouth warming her even though her sweater.

Angled his hips and notched a little deeper into her.

She sighed, adjusting to him. It burned. It burned but it wasn’t so bad anymore.

He shuddered, and she pulled him closer with her heels on the backs of his thighs. Another inch of slipping together, locking into position as if they were supposed to fit like this.

“You’re so tight,” he managed, strangled.

She choked a gasp, her arms draped over his shoulders. “Deeper, please.”

Sweet agony; a delicious sort of pain stretching her further when he moved.

Her chin hit his shoulder, and his knees buckled before she could remember that shirtless, he was susceptible to her touch. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

He brushed a kiss against her jaw, easing her concerns as he grabbed her scarf, hastily throwing it over himself where she was nearest.

“Don’t be. I love it when you make my head swim like that,” he chuckled into her throat. “Okay?”

Cupped her ass with his palms, warming her through the medical gloves.

He loved it, she knew. He loved —

Rogue took a breath, drew back as John slipped away, and pressed into her with a single, sweet thrust — smooth and slow and sure. She nodded, and he moved again, watching her face as her eyes fluttered shut — the sting lessened.

“Look at me,” he said, drawing out slowly, his hands gripping her, and back.

She gasped at the connection, John pressing deep inside her — all the way to the hilt. He moved there, small movements that were slow and controlled, brushing right up against her clit so that she could feel all of him.

He breathed a laugh, groaning a little with her as he drew back a little more.

This time, it was Rogue who swore when he began moving a little faster. Small, short thrusts meant to get her used to the feeling. He filled her up, her pussy responding to the heat and hardness of him. She tightened, trying involuntarily to hold him in place longer — to grind herself against him as he fucked her.

“Like that,” she heard herself say, tightening around him.

“Watch,” he said, and Rogue glanced down to see the slick and wet of her on his cock as he withdrew, and then pushed back inside her.

She shuddered, her body quaking.

He did it again, and everything shuddered, the strength in her limbs threatening to leave her as she felt her orgasm build.

“Johnny,” she breathed.

He slipped a hand between their bodies and thumbed her clit.

Rogue all but crawled up on to of him, moving to meet his thrusts with her own as he found her sweet spot.

Smirking, he licked into her mouth — longer and deeper this time, his thrusts agonizing and long and swifter then before as everything between them drew together, winding taut and ready.

He pulled back from her mouth, sweat shining on his skin. Satisfied that he had her, at last. John Allerdyce triumphant.

The transfer of information was as brief and abrupt as what her powers drew from his mind, this time — as simple as anything could be, as impressive as her world shattering — a star going supernova. She cried out as she came around him —

He loved it. He loved _her_.

John followed, weak and sagging against the table as he spilled into her with a groan. Moving, still — everything in collusion.

Everything.

The click of the door unlocking onto the room was quieted, ambient school noises raising the volume as it swung open onto the bio lab — on the pair of students wound together on the table inside.

Pyro turned first, still buried within her, and smirked over his shoulder at who he found silhouetted in the doorway.

Jubilee’s surprise, perhaps, was the most animated of everyone, but it was Kitty’s hand clapped to her mouth that alerted Rogue that things were about to get much more complicated. To the boy standing next to Kitty, a warning not to look —

Rogue didn’t have the chance to see Bobby’s expression, however, as the door slammed shut on them. It cut off the crowd beyond, along with the amused face of Dr. Jean Grey. It afforded them a few minutes’ privacy.

John turned back to her, eyebrows raised as the voice of Dr. Grey echoed through their minds as one:

“Well, I guess that explains the state of the kitchen,” the doctor said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stories live forever, so you might as well write them. Maybe someday there will be a revival of this pairing. I hope so. I miss the old X-Men fiercely. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you're interested in more, you can always find me at my [Tumblr](http://octobertown.tumblr.com) and make a request.


End file.
